Maybe this is why they say you shouldn’t live with boys?
It was late on a Tuesday night and by this point I had already been to a dozen flat viewings – four that evening alone – and hope was rapidly evaporating. In desperation, I was learning to compromise and give up dreams of a roof terrace, double bed or stand-alone shower. I was even toying with the idea of male flatmates. I had lived with just one boy before and – besides some initial confusing feelings – it had been fine. Granted, we did have separate bathrooms.
I knocked on the door and was greeted by the girl I had been in touch with. We got along right away as she showed me around the flat. The kitchen was huge and there was even a separate dining room, not to mention a downstairs loo and a gorgeous garden out the back. Hope began to seep back in, even when I was faced with the teeny-tiny available bedroom in question.
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The bed rested against the wall while bedside tables, dresser drawers and shelving units jostled for space, squashed together like half-price items at a yard sale, but I remained optimistic. The girl seemed great and the flat was super nice; I could make this work.
Then I saw the bathroom. A multitude of products littered the tub, hair rimmed the sink and it looked like mould had become part of the decor. As a cold wind whistled through gaps in the window, internally, I screamed.